


The Us of Harry and Hermione

by GenSen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23801569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenSen/pseuds/GenSen
Summary: Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy, he thinks. For the price of admission, you get an inferiority complex and the nearly irresistible urge to punch your best friend in the face.6th Year Reimagining - HHR - M
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 97
Kudos: 209





	1. Silver Arrow

The Burrow, late July 1996

The early sun was already warm and bathed the garden gold. He closes his eyes for moment and breathes deeply, feeling the sun on his face. The air is perfumed from the wildflowers cross the hill, brought down by the early morning breeze. 

She’s standing out in the garden, beside a wooden bench under the oak tree. Well, not so much standing as pacing back and forth. She’s still in her socks and she’s got her hair in two braids down her shoulders, and the climbing sun catching the curls that spring free round her face. It’s longer, he thinks, as she twirls a braid anxiously around her finger. The sight of her here, healthy and strong, gives him relief he didn’t know he needed.

“Hermione?” He calls to her, making his way across the grass. She turns at his voice and her face breaks into a grin, eyes crinkling and teeth flashing perfectly white. She jogs across the yard and throws herself at him, arms winding tightly around his neck.

“Harry!” She says warmly into his ear, “I’m so glad you’re here.” 

He hugs her to him; she feels warm and soft and heavy on his chest. Her hair smells like fresh bread.

She pulls back, scanning his face. “Are you ok? When did you get here? I heard you came with Dumbledore.”

He huffs at her eagerness. “Uh, about one last night,” he offered, shrugging. She doesn’t miss the exhaustion in his voice. Of course, she doesn’t.

“Was your summer... ok?” she probes, her brows pulling together as she stares up at him. He feels like she’s shrunk since he’s last seen her.

Harry takes a laboured breath, and scratches at the back of his neck. “The Dursley’s were the Dursley’s, I guess. Didn’t really talk to me... but that’s how I like it,” he recovers quickly, catching the sadness creeping into her eyes.

“I’m sorry you were alone, Harry,” she mutters, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I should have written more.”

“No, no, Hermione!” He shakes his head, picturing the stack of letters tucked into the side of his trunk. “You wrote plenty! They were great, actually.” He tries a smile, and she seems to buy it.

“I just didn’t want to you feel like I’d- we’d forgotten you.”

Harry thinks back to this time last year, feeling so frustrated at seeing her and Ron, happy and together at the Burrow while he suffered at the Dursley’s, how he shouted at her. He feels a heavy wash of guilt.

“You know, I’m here... If you ever want to talk,” she offers, genuinely. “If you’re not ready to talk about-” he coughs loudly, stalling her. Any mention of Sirius brings a lump to his throat.

“What are you doing out here?” he says quickly, gesturing at the garden. Her eyes light up and she bounces on her heels.

“Oh! O.W.L.S, Harry! The owls should be arriving anytime now.” She pauses, thinking for a moment and her smile turns anxious. “I know I messed up Ancient Runes," she mutters. "I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation, and the Defence Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back-"

“Hermione!” He shouts, trying to reassure her. “I’m sure you were perfect.”

She smiles and she unconsciously massages her hand over a spot on her left chest. Harry frowns at the unfamiliar motion. Suddenly, purple flames streaking across her chest and _dontletherbedeaddontletherbedead_ flashes in his mind. He flinches, clenching his fists so hard his fingernails stab into his skin.

____

____

She reaches out to touch him, and he instinctively steps back from her. He doesn’t miss the hurt across her face.

“Sorry, I just... I have to go,” he splutters out, his chest feeling tight. He needs to get out of here before the walls he’s carefully built over the summer come crumbling down. He backs out towards the house, leaving her there, dejected, in the middle of the garden. 

•

He felt pretty pleased with his results, the only unsettling feeling was that Auror training requires potions, and Snape won’t accept Exceeding Expectations. He smiles with Ron and jokes that he’s glad to be rid of him, but he feels an emptiness settling in his gut; over the summer, the idea had taken hold of him. He’d never had something to look forward to, work towards, that wasn’t _not dying_. It was something that implied there was going to be a life after _either must die at the hand of the other_.

_____ _

_____ _

Hermione gets ten O’s of course, she beams up at him and he pulls a strained smile back at her, _I told you so_. Ron’s happy to just have passed. Mrs Weasley’s so proud, she gets Ginny and Fleur to help her cook up a large lunch in celebration. Ginny looks sour the entire time, muttering under her breath and clanging pots. Eventually, Mrs Weasley pulls her aside and whispers something about growing up and family.

Hermione drags Harry and Ron up to her room and badgers at him until he’s finished telling them about his evening with Dumbledore and Slughorn. She’s staying in Charlie’s old room, across from him on the second floor. He moves some books to sit on her bed and he notices their strange covers; _A History of Prophesying: Inspiration, Interpretation and Revelation_ and _Prophecies – The Mystic Con_.

There’s a smaller one underneath and he pulls it out, turning it over in his hands. He runs his fingers over the title; _Lady Chatterley’s Lover_. When Hermione notices her face burns red and she steals it from his hands, hiding it behind her back.

“So, uh... do you think he’ll be the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?” she stammers, looking at anything but him.

Harry frowns. “I expect so... no Umbridge anymore.”

“What’s that?” pipes up Ron, moving to stand in front of Hermione, eyes gleaming. “Behind your back?”

“None of your business,” she scowls, and he swipes behind her, searching for it. “Leave it, Ron!” she says firmly, stepping back from him.

“Oh, come on!” he laughs at her, holding her wrist and plucking it from her hands. Her eyes go wide as Ron inspects it, his face dropping.

“Oh,” he says, disappointed. “Why are you getting so worked up over a Muggle book?” He throws it back at her and she catches it, barely. “Aren’t our books boring enough?”

She swallows and her eyes flick to Harry’s for just a moment. An awkward silence settles between them. Harry coughs, clearing his throat. 

“He, uh, knew my parents...” he starts, desperate to break the tension. “Slughorn, I mean. He-”

“Lunch!” comes Mrs Weasley’s booming voice from downstairs. Ron takes a breath of relief and strides out the door. Harry directs Hermione a sympathetic look as she places the book in her trunk. He catches her elbow as he follows her out the door, and she spins to look at him, surprised.

“Those books...where did you get them?” he asks, and her cheeks flush red again. “The big ones,” he adds, sensing her discomfit.

“Oh, uh... Dumbledore convinced Madam Pince to let me take a few home over the summer. She wasn’t happy about it, but I insisted. I just wanted to make sure we knew everything about the...” she looks up at him cautiously, “you know.”

He nods at her and swallows. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it. Alone all summer with the constant voices of _powerthedarklordknowsnot _and _neithercanlive _and _goodonejames _circling. He feels a comfort knowing he hasn’t been the only one.______

_____ _

_____ _

She nods back at him and they make their way into the kitchen, Mrs Weasley pottering around. Ginny is moping, pointedly sitting at the opposite end of the table to Fleur. Ron has pulled his chair up close to her, she’s speaking to him in that silky voice and he hangs off every word. Hermione watches him with an unreadable look and takes a seat next to Ginny. Harry sits across from them, loading his plate. 

“Looks great, Mrs Weasley,” he says. He hasn’t eaten like this since Hogwarts, and his stomach is growling.

“It’s nothing, my dear,” she smiles back at him and places a buttered bread roll on her husband’s plate. Ginny says something that makes Hermione laugh.

“‘Ermione, your teeth are so lovely,” croons Fleur, flashing her own perfect smile. 

“Uh, thank you. My parents are dentists,” Hermione says, running her tongue over her teeth.

Fleur’s eyebrows pull together delicately. “Denteests?” she repeats, looking to Mr Weasley questioningly.

His eyes light up. “Yes, indeed!” he says eagerly, rubbing his hands together. “As I understand, they are some sort of Muggle Tooth Healer, correct?” He motions to Hermione and she nods. “I have been speculating recently about the properties of toothpaste. I find it astoundingly strange why Muggles require paste made out of teeth.”

Harry and Hermione both erupt into laughter, and the others look at them incredulously. 

“What’s so funny?” huffs Ron, staring at the two of them with a frown.

“Sorry, Mr Weasley,” laughs Harry, grinning at Hermione. He’s missed this - laughing with her. “It’s for cleaning teeth.” 

“Why would you want to clean teeth with that?” quips Ginny uncertainly, looking between Ron and her father. “Mum would always just use a spell...”

“It’s not...It doesn’t matter,” says Harry, waving his hands at them. “Fleur,” he starts, changing the conversation, “when’s the wedding?”

She spins to face him, and her eyes light up. “Oh, yes! We are thinking next summer, zee Riviera is particularly beautiful at zis time of year.” Mrs. Weasley chokes on her bread roll. “You will all be invited, of course! I wish to take zee girls shopping in _Pah-rhee _. Ginny, ‘Ermione, you would look lovely in ‘e dress!”__

____

____

Harry thinks back to fourth year when she wore that periwinkle dress and smoothed her hair. She didn’t look like Hermione at all.

“Some powder on your freckles, and a Sleek-Easy for zat ‘air - you will look gorgeous!” Fleur continues, gesturing at Hermione. Her fingertips slide over the freckles on her nose and across her cheeks. Harry’s chest pangs when she lowers her eyes. She doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal. 

Ron spends the next half hour with his sleeves rolled up, showing Fleur the faded tentacle scars that wind up his arms. Hermione excuses herself quietly.

“Dear, would you take the leftover bread to the chickens?” Mrs Weasley calls to her, motioning to the crusts and half-eaten rolls on the counter. Hermione nods and folds them into a checkered kitchen towel, disappearing out the back door wordlessly. 

Harry looks down at his own plate, now clean except for his own crusts. He stands abruptly and all eyes at the table turn to him. 

“Uh,” he starts, feeling pressure under their gaze. “I’m just... I’ll take these out too,” he motions to the door, gathering up his crusts. Mrs Weasley smiles at him with a thank you, dear and the table continues its conversation.

She stands by the chicken coop, poking the bread through the wire. The chickens are teeming at her feet, shaking their feathers and chattering. He moves in beside her, unsure what to say. He rips a piece of his bread and pokes it through the wire too.

“You don’t need to make me feel better, Harry,” she says softly, staring at the chickens as they push and peck. He’s not sure how, but she’s always been able to read his thoughts. “Don’t tell me Fleur’s mad and I’m not ugly and all that.”

Harry frowns. “But I don’t think you’re ugly,” he says, and it's feels familiar in his mouth. He thinks she’s far from it.

She rolls her eyes and huffs, “Thanks Harry, but-”

“I like them...”

She frowns at him, “what?”

“Uh... your freckles, I mean.” He quickly looks away from her, ripping at another piece of bread. “I don’t think you should... you know... cover them up.”

Her face flushes pink. The chickens cluck, demanding more bread.

“I think I have a better idea,” he says, scooping up the remaining bread. He pulls at the latch and swings open the coop gate.

“Harry, no!” Hermione yells but it’s too late, the chickens are swarming. They fly at him, pecking at his hands and flapping all around. 

He makes a high-pitched yelp and flings the bread at the ground. Hermione’s hands cover her mouth; trying, and failing, to conceal her laughter. Her eyes are shining, and he feels pride in his chest. He brushes a feather from his hair and grins at her too.

The chickens take off in all directions, flapping and clucking rowdily. 

“Come on, then,” she laughs, “I’ll help you catch them. Well...” she thinks for a moment. “I’ll corral them, and _you _catch them.”__

____

__

____

•

“If we play two on two, I think it would work,” says Ron abruptly. They’re all sitting in the Livingroom; it’s just past midday and the room is hot and stuffy.

“What are you talking about, Ronald?” sighs Ginny, her feet swinging over the side of an armchair.

Ron sneers at her. “Quidditch, you twit,” he answers back, and Ginny throws a pillow at him. “If it’s me and you versus Harry and Hermione, we should be pretty even.” Harry steals a glance at Hermione, she looks alarmed. 

“Why do I have to be on your team?” quips Ginny.

“Because Harry’s the only actual player and Hermione can’t even fly, that’s why!”

Hermione’s teeth sink into her lip, suppressing a response. 

“I’m up for it if you are,” Harry says to her, and she nods her head gingerly. The hair on the back of his neck prickles at the thought of being back in the air.

Ginny springs to her feet and pushes past Ron.

“I get the Cleansweep!” she shouts, running through the kitchen. Ron’s eyes go wide.

“That’s mine!” he roars and bounds after her. Harry laughs, and Hermione watches it all with a look of trepidation.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Harry says, holding his hand out to her. “I’ll help you.”

She smiles a little and nods, taking his hand and he pulls her from the couch.

They discuss where the best spot would be, and settle for the orchard, as the surrounding trees can act as goal posts. The Weasley’s have an old Quaffle, faded and patched, but no Snitch. Ron argues that Harry shouldn’t be allowed his Firebolt, but he laughs him off. 

His broom rises to meet his hand like an old friend, and moment the smooth wood touches his palm he feels content.

He kicks off hard and feels the familiar weight of himself settle on the broom. He savours the cold sting of the air whipping his cheeks and the swooping, weightless sensation he only gets from flying.

He pulls up slow, far above the ground, closes his eyes and breathes. It’s so calm; the sun warm on his face and the wind whistling between the nearby hills. He thinks what he’d give to stay up here forever.

Ron and Ginny are below, hovering above the ground as they fix large baskets to the trees at either end of the orchard. He spots Hermione still on the grass, struggling to mount her broom. He glides down to her.

“Use the Silver Arrow,” he calls down to her. “It’s slower, better handling,” he offers, and she looks up at him, confused. He lands beside her quietly. 

“I just have trouble getting off the ground,” she reasons, looking down at the broom, exasperated. “I can’t get my feet in the holds without tipping.”

“Just let the broom take your weight. Don’t try to sit above it, if that makes sense.” 

She frowns at him. “It doesn’t.”

He laughs. She looks at the broom like it's some equation she can figure out. Harry thinks it's more like the opposite. 

“Just trust that it's going to hold you and don’t over think it.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she quips, the broom between her legs tilting to the left. She plants her feet and huffs, tossing it to the ground.

Harry disappears into the Weasley’s shed before returning with another broom. “Use this one,” he offers. She eyes it with caution, folding her arms across her chest.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. Why don’t you just play alone? You’re better than both of them, anyway.” She motions up to Ron and Ginny.

“No way,” he says flippantly. “I’m gonna need you as back up.”

She laughs, and he grins at her proudly. “I don’t think so,” she snorts.

“Here,” he says, mounting the Silver Arrow and hovering just above the ground. “I’ll get it balanced and you get on.”

She pauses for a moment, eyes flicking up to Ron.

“Ok, just... don’t go any higher.” 

He shakes his head. “I promise.”

He slides back on the broom, dipping it forward just enough for her to climb on. He places a steading hand on her ribs; a nice, safe, totally appropriate position. She glances at him over her shoulder.

“Now what?” she asks, blowing at a curl in front her eyes. It’s tingles his cheek.

“Put your whole weight into it, find your balance. Then I’ll hop off.” 

“Ok... ok, I got this.” She sets her face with a determined scowl and he lets out a laughing puff.

She jerks the handle up a little too quickly and she slips back into him. He exhales harshly. Her ass is fitted snug in against his hips. His fingers tighten around her rib cage and feels the swell of her breast above them. Suddenly, his trousers feel too tight.

“Sorry!” she gasps, righting the broom. She twists against him _ohgodohgodohgod_. 

His mind goes blank. Blood rushes loudly in his ears.

“I think I got it,” she says after a moment.

“Oh... yep, yes... good job,” he stammers, climbing off. He holds the tail as she anchors her feet in the holds.

“Thank you,” she mutters, looking down at him, cheeks pink. 

“Uh, no problem!” he says at little too loudly, trying to discreetly adjust the front of his trousers. 

“Are you two ready or what?” calls Ron from above, juggling the Quaffle from hand to hand. Harry squints up at him. He thinks mounting his broom right now is a bad idea. 

“Yep! Just... gotta use the loo!” he shouts, signalling his thumbs awkwardly back towards the house.

“Well, you need to hurry up!”

What he needs a bucket of cold water and a kick up the arse, he thinks. He tries his absolute best not to waddle across the field.

•

“Good night, boys,” sings Fleur as she heads up the staircase, leaving Harry and Ron alone in the livingroom. They wave up at her, and Ron watches her hips sway as she climbs. Mrs Weasley has set out some sweets for them after dinner.

“What do you think she’s doing with a bloke like Bill?” Ron murmurs, turning to Harry with a giddy smile. “She could have anyone she wants, and she chooses him.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “And what? You think you’re any better?”

Ron throws a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Bean at him. “Hey! I’m just as handsome.” Ron flexes his arm, slapping his bicep. “Better body too, some might say.”

Harry snorts. “Who says?”

“Fleur.”

Harry chokes on a bean. “Bugger off!”

“No, I’m serious,” he says proudly. “The other day when I was showing her my scars she said -” he puts on a terrible French accent, “- Zay are still very ‘andsome arms.”

Harry laughs. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

“I think she’s totally regretting saying no to me for the Yule Ball,” he jokes, leaning back into the couch and crossing his ankles. “She’s thinking she could’ve had all this,” he gestures down to himself.

They both laugh. “Seriously though,” Ron huffs. “We need to get girlfriends this year. At this rate Neville will get laid before us. I hear he’s gotten close with that Hufflepuff girl.”

“Who? Susan?”

“Hannah Abbott. And I’m pretty sure Malfoy is shagging Parkinson.”

Harry cringed, raising his hands in protest. “Like I needed to know that!”

“What’s the point of being the Chosen One if you can’t use it to get girls?”

“I think it makes it harder, to be honest,” he shrugs. Ron stuffs his mouth with a handful of beans.

“Why?” he garbles. Harry thinks for a moment.

“It’s just never easy, you know? They’re either scared of me or want something out of it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just want it to be... easy, I guess.”

“Well, send them my way,” Ron laughs. “I don’t mind if they just want something outta me.”

Harry laughs and shakes his head at him, rolling his eyes. He flicks a yellow bean at Ron’s head.

“Would be nice, though,” sighs Ron. “Get a girl and forget about all this bad stuff for a while.”

“Would be nice...” Harry repeats quietly.

“You think I should try for the team this year?”

Harry frowns, “huh?”

“The Quidditch team. I’m thinking of trying out again.” 

Harry thinks back to this afternoon out in the field. Between making sure Hermione didn’t fall and trying not to make it obvious he was doing so; he hadn’t really paid Ron much attention.

“I’ll give you some tips,” he says, and Ron’s eyes light up. “We’ll do some more practice, maybe try a few different roles.”

“Brilliant.” 

•

The next few days is spent between Quidditch, sleeping and eating. Harry works with Ron out above the field. Ginny insists on helping and, even though she was quite good, he thinks she’s just enjoying throwing things at her brother. Fleur brings them water every now and then, and Hermione seems content to watch them from under the oak tree, nose in her book. They’ve taken to eating dinner in the garden every night, just before the sun goes down. 

“I think maybe chaser just isn’t for you,” Harry says to Ron, wiping at his brow. Ron flies behind him and they land just near the orchard fence.

“I wish we had some bludgers,” Ron says, pulling off his shirt. His pale, freckled skin contrasts his tanned arms and face. Harry removes his too.

“Don’t let your mum hear that,” Harry laughs, wiping the shirt down his chest.

They climb over the stone wall and the smell of frying oil wafts across the garden. He hears Ron’s stomach rumble. 

“I hope that’s fish and chips,” Ron groans, inhaling deeply and walking a little faster. He turns to Harry and lobs his broom at him. “Take this back to the shed, will ya?”

Harry catches it in his free hand and opens his mouth to make a retort but Ron’s already off, headed for the kitchen door. 

He passes the oak tree and he’s surprised to find Hermione still there, hair pulled into a bun above her head. She’s pressing a cold glass against her neck. Eyes only for her book, she doesn’t hear him approach. 

“Hey,” he says, standing before her. She jumps, and gasps when the water splashes over the side of her glass.

“Harry, what are y-” 

She looks up at him and pauses, teeth biting into her lower lip. A bead of water runs down her collar and pools in the dip between her breasts. He swallows.

“You hungry?” He smiles down at her, nodding towards the kitchen. Her eyes are locked above his shorts. “Hermione?”

Her eyes flick up to his and her ears go red. 

“Uh, yes,” she stammers, closing her book. “Sounds good.”

“How is it?” Her eyes flick back to his chest for a moment. “The book?” he finishes.

“It’s... good,” she says, tucking it under her knee. “Are you finished for today?” She motions to the brooms in either hand. He looks down at them.

“Oh, yeah. Ron’s set on chaser but I don’t think it's gonna happen,” he laughs. “Not today at least.”

The kitchen door bangs, and Ron exits with a fresh shirt on, juggling large plates. Mrs Weasley follows, shaking cutlery at him. Ginny joins them and they eat together under the oak tree. 

“Bill’s coming home tomorrow,” Ginny says, crunching a chip between her teeth. “Mum’s invited Tonks.”

Ron frowns. “Why?”

“I think she's hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I'd much rather have her in the family. "

“Are you mad?” huffs Ron incredulously. “Who in their right mind would be looking at Tonks when Fleur’s around?”

Hermione’s fork stabs at her fish and she frowns down at her plate. 

"At least she’s cool,’ says Ginny. "At least she's a laugh."

"She hasn't been much of a laugh lately," says Ron. "Every time I've seen her, she's looked more like Moaning Myrtle."

"That's not fair," snaps Hermione, pointing her fork at him. "She still hasn't got over what happened... you know... he was her cousin."

Sirius. The sinking pit in his stomach opens wide. He’s been so content these past few days. A heavy feeling of guilt rises, and he tries swallowing it down.

"Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!" exclaims Ron, poking his own fork back at her. "Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that their families never even met-"

"That's not the point," huffs Hermione. "She thinks it was her fault he died."

"How does she work that one out?" Harry utters between gritted teeth. Hermione winces, turning to him, her brows pulling together into this sad, sorry expression. He hates it.

"Well, she was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn't she?” Hermione says, softer and more careful than before. “I think she feels that if only she had finished her off, Bellatrix couldn't have killed Sirius. "

"That's stupid," said Ron, waving a chip around. It was stupid. It was _so_ stupid. Sirius wouldn’t have even been there if it wasn’t for _him_. 

"It's survivor's guilt," said Hermione, eyeing Harry cautiously. They all fall into a wretched silence. The sound of Ron’s fork scraping on the plate pierces through him. His eyes sting.

He gathers is plate and stands. “I’m gonna... take a shower,” he says, looking down at his chest. His sweat has attracted a fair bit of dirt and he thinks it's perfectly plausible.

He makes it to his room unscathed, shuffling past Mr and Mrs Weasley in the Livingroom, both preoccupied, speaking in hushed voices. He finds a scruffy orange ball curled up on his pillow. 

He sits on the edge of the bed and Crookshanks trills, startled. Harry holds his head in his hands as Crookshanks stretches and settles against him. He breathes deeply, sucking in air between his palms.

After a while, he’s not sure how long, there’s a soft rap on his door.

“Harry?” she asks, easing it open. She squints into the dimness. He doesn’t move to reply. 

She stands before him and Crookshanks whines, bounding off the bed and rubbing his head against her legs.

“Do you want to talk?”

“Not really,” is his muffled reply. It won’t make her leave, but he thinks it's worth a try.

The bed dips as she sits next to him, her knee bumping his. She reaches down and scratches the top of the cat’s head. They sit in silence for a while, Crookshanks purring heavily. She places her hand his arm and his skin rises in goosebumps to meet her fingers.

“I know you were thinking about Auror training,” she starts, probing at him. “I think it’s a bit unfair Snape doesn’t accept Exceeds Expectations.”

He nods.

Her eyebrows pull together and she tries again. “I think you’ll make a great Quidditch captain this y-”

“It’s my fault,” he chokes out, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. She grips at his forearm, smoothing her thumb over his skin.

“Harry...”

“It is!” he cries, standing and pulling away from her.

“It’s not. It’s theirs,” she says, resolutely. 

“ _I’m_ the one who played into their hands. _I_ led us right to them. Sirius had to come save _me_!”

“Sirius made his own decisions,” she says, carefully. “Do you think he could’ve lived with himself, knowing he left you to fight alone? What if you died?”

“Then it would be my own fault!” he says, throwing his hands up. 

“And you think we’d all be just fine without you?” she huffs. “You have so many people who love you, Harry. People who couldn’t live without you.” Her eyes are shining up at him, with tears or with defiance he’s not sure.

“I don’t want people to die for me,” he says heavily, drained. That sad, sorry expression is back. 

“Please don’t look at me like that,” he sighs, turning away from her.

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me, as if I didn’t do this to myself.” He gestures sluggishly at her, at himself. “Like I’m broken.”

“It’s not like that,” she looks down at her hands, and breathes. “I know you’re hurting, and I can’t make it go away. I just want you to know that I’m here.”

He exhales, and the guilt is back, clawing at his chest. He presses his fingers stiff at his temples.

“I know.” 

“Everyone that night wishes they could have done something different. Tonks wishes she’d beaten Bellatrix. Ron wishes he didn’t get separated. I wish I had been able to reflect that curse.” 

His eyes flick to the spot on her chest, just above her left breast. He sees that purple flash again and _dontletherbedead_ rings in his ears.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she looks up, eyes searching. “I couldn’t protect you.” 

She gives him a sad smile. “I made my own decisions too.”

“You scared the fuck outta me, you know.” He laughs miserably, the memory of that utter terror creeping out from behind the wall. “I thought you were dead.”

She launches from the bed and snakes her arms around his waist, pulling him to her. He exhales harshly, she’s so warm against his cool skin. He slides his arms round her neck.

“I should have listened to you,” he whispers into her hair, her forehead hot against his collarbone. He’ll never make that mistake again.

She hums, and her breath tingles over his skin. The hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She feels entirely too good pressed into him.

He steps back from her, and she smiles up at him. “You better,” she quips, wiping at her eyes. He smiles back at her and his chest feels a little less heavy.

He doesn’t know what he would do, how he would cope, without her.

•

It’s Harry’s birthday on Wednesday. Fleur helps Mrs Weasley bake a cake and the smell fills the whole house. An owl arrives early in the morning with hastily wrapped gift; George's Compendium Box of Pyrotechtrix.

_More where that came from. Happy Birthday. – F & G_. 

Ron eyes the fireworks avidly. Harry gets a pair of knitted socks from Mrs Weasley and a box of Chocolate Frogs from Ron. Hermione gives him a subscription to Seeker Weekly and new pair of leather arm guards.

“I noticed last year you’ve been flying without them,” she says, watching him as he slips one on. “You’ve already broken your arm once.”

“Yeah, my old ones got too small,” he replies, tightening the straps. They’re perfect.

“Since when do you notice anything about Quidditch?” quips Ron, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Thanks, Hermione.” Harry grins at her.

“You’re welcome.” She grins back.

Ginny brings Harry breakfast in the Livingroom. She’s made him tea. It’s much too sweet and he winces when it hits his tongue, but thanks her anyway.

When she turns her back Hermione swirls her wand over his cup. He looks up at her and there’s this feeling like they’re waiting for everyone else to catch up. They never do.

That’s what best friends do, right?

•

•

•

_“Hermy-own-ninny talks about you very often,” said Krum, stumbling over her name. Everyone seemed to have a stake in his relationship with Hermione back then._

_“We’re friends.”_

_Krum frowned; black, bushy eyebrows scrunching together. “She knows ev’ryting about you. Vhat classes you take, vhen your homework iz due. Vhenever I talk about my Quidditch, she alvays compairs it to you.” Harry nodded, this was nothing he didn’t already know. “You two must be very close.”_

_Harry shrugged. Hermione is a constant that he never really has to think about, no matter how many goblets spit out his name._

_“It’s just how it's always been.”_

_Krum thought for a moment, eyes glassed over. “Do you know her favourite sveet?”_

_“Sweet?”_

_“Ya.”_

_“Oh, uh... She loves sugar quills, the Deluxe variety. She’s says they last longer. She doesn’t like liquorice, and Oh! avoid Exploding Bon Bons. She actually likes chocolate, but one time they exploded in her bag and got all over her book and she’s hated them ever since.” He laughed, picturing her outraged face. “Cherry Fudge. You can only get it in the variety pack, but she never minds as she always gives the Treacle ones to me...”_

_Krum studied him with a frown and deliberated if she’s worth pursuing if it meant Harry came along for the ride too. ___


	2. Cherries

He wakes in an icy sweat, sucking in breath. His room is dark and he’s left the window open, the breeze sharp on his skin. He can still smell the rubble, feel Lupin’s vice grip, see Sirius’s cold eyes. He sits and scrubs his hands over his face, massaging at his temples. The moon is high outside the window and he thinks it must be past midnight.

He pushes off the bed, slipping on a fresh shirt and pads down the stairs. In the kitchen he finds a mismatched pair of glasses on the sink. He fills one with water and doesn’t realise it’s full until water runs down his fingers.

There’s light under Hermione’s door, seeping out across the floorboards. He pauses in front of it, listening. He raps his knuckles lightly on the wood.

“Hermione?”

He pushes it open. She’s sitting cross legged on the rug, candle burning low on the nightstand behind her, one of those heavy books in her lap. Crookshanks blinks at him from beside her. She looks up at him, concerned.

“Everything ok?”

He moves into the room. It’s still warm in here and it smells like parchment. 

“Can I stay?”

Her lips pull at the corners and she nods. He sits on the edge of her bed and Crookshanks springs into his lap, kneading at his leg. Harry smooths his palm along his fur, and the cat settles, his purrs vibrating into Harry’s skin. 

She’s reading one of the books from the other day. There’s torn pieces of parchment sticking up between pages, and he smiles because of course she would never fold the corners. He’s surprised she can read at all with only the flickering candle behind her. She tucks a curl behind her ear, and her lips move just slightly with every word. 

She glances up at him from under her lashes and he feels caught. 

“Ah... Lumos?” he stammers, feeling for his wand, but his pyjama pockets are empty. She frowns and shakes her head.

“No, Harry. We’re not allowed-”

“Oh, right... of course,” he stumbles, feeling daft. 

“I appreciate the offer though.” 

She smiles at him, freckles stretching, her teeth are white even in the dimness. Have her lashes always been this long?

She slides her finger between the pages where a parchment piece is held, prying them open. It’s a diagram of a prophecy orb, speckled stars swirling within in. Enchanting, it holds his gaze.

“He chose me,” he says, the words coming easy to him. He feels safe, here in her room. “It could have been Neville, but he chose me.”

Her eyes flick up to his, searching. “I don’t understand.”

“Dumbledore. He heard the prophecy from Trelawney. Back before I was born.”

“Trelawney?”

“Yeah.”

She pauses, thumb flicking at the corner of the page. He can almost see the cogs turning.

“I always wondered why he hired her. I mean, I don’t value Divination myself, but even I could see she was dreadful. It makes sense that he’d want her at Hogwarts, to protect her from...” She turns her body to face him and pauses, carefully. “You know.”

Harry swallows, and nods. He picks at the balls of lint on her blanket.

“She said the one with the power to vanquish him would be born as the seventh month dies, to parents who’d thrice defied him.” He glances at her and her eyes are intense, so dark they are nearly black. “Dumbledore thinks it was either me or Neville.”

“Oh,” she says, more to herself than him. “So that’s why the Ministry added your name to the Prophecy _after_ its creation. He didn’t know who it was. He created his own enemy.” 

____

__

It could have been someone else. He’s tried locking that thought behind the wall, but it keeps rearing its ugly head. His parents would be alive. He’d never have lived at the Dursley’s and he’d never have nightmares and he’d still have Sirius and and and.

“We can’t change what happened, Harry,” she interrupts, placing a hand on his knee. He thinks he’ll never understand how she has always, will always, know his thoughts. “Even if he chose Neville, you’d still be fighting him. I know you would. You’d still be here with me working on this prophecy and how we’ll beat him because that’s what you do. You fight.”

Eyes are shining and her words pierce him. He holds her fierce gaze, hands stilling on Crookshanks’ back. 

She’s right. 

She’s always right.

“A power he knows not,” he blurts, and she opens her mouth, but he continues. “That’s how we beat him.”

“Is that the prophecy too?” He nods, and considers telling her the rest of it, but he doesn’t think he could bare the sadness in her eyes when he tells her _neither can live while the other survives_. Crookshanks trills, eyes narrowing at Harry’s lack of attention. “What do you think that means?” 

____

____

He shrugs, scratching the cat behind the ears. “I don’t know. I don’t have any special powers or secret weapons. I don’t have an army or even a clue where to begin.”

“You have me,” she starts, and he swears she blushes, but it’s really, really hard to tell in this light. “And Ron, and the Weasleys, Dumbledore and The Order. We’ll figure it out.”

“Thanks,” he says, squeezing the hand that lingers on his knee. “Really.” Her skin is so warm under his fingertips.

She beams up at him, and he’s glad he told her. He feels lighter - like maybe it might all just be ok after all. 

Suddenly there’s this heavy feeling that they’re staring for too long - touching too long - and she yanks her hand from his, whipping her head back down into her book. A lump grows in this throat.

“Did you find anything?” he coughs, massaging at his neck. “Was it worth pissing off Pince?”

She snorts and rolls her eyes. “I’ll have you know Madam Pince and I are very good friends.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he laughs, and she shakes her head at him.

“There’s two understandings really, the sceptics and the advocates. But the argument against isn’t that prophecies don’t exist, but that they’re pointless. Every person has a destiny and all that. There are plenty of documented prophecies throughout history, but whether or not they changed the outcome they can’t prove.” She runs the tip of her finger around the diagram, circling the orb. “This page actually explains how the physical property is formed, it’s rather interesting actually.”

“Will you read it to me?”

Her eyes flick to his, and she nods. He leans into the bed and folds one of the pillows under his head. Every time he inhales his nose is filled with the scent of her hair. Crookshanks settles against his back. 

She reads, and he watches her pink lips move, sliding against each other. Every so often the tip of her tongue glides over her bottom lip, wetting it. He’s not really sure what she’s saying but his heart’s beating slow and his eyes are closing and it's the calmest he’s felt in a long, long while.

He wakes when the sun scorches on his eyelids through a crack in the curtains. He hears her slow breathing below him. She’s curled onto the rug beside him, head on her arm and book by her feet. A curl that’s fallen over her cheek dances with every breath.

He gathers up the blanket and lays it over her. He nudges the pillow against her hand, and she stirs, bringing it under her head. He folds the book closed and stacks it on top of the pile next to the bed. The door closes behind him with a soft click.

•

“Will you please play?”

Harry pauses at the top of the stairs. Ron’s cornered Hermione on the couch. She scowls at him. 

“Why?”

“Because it's not proper practice without two teams,” he begs.

“It’s not proper practice, anyway.” She rolls her eyes.

“Come on, don’t ruin this for me.”

“Ruin it?” she exclaims, eyes wide.

“You know I want to make the team this year and I need to practice, real practice.”

“Fine,” she sighs, pressing anxious fingers into her temples. The stairs squeak under Harry and they both turn to him.

“Harry!” Ron’s eyes light up. “We can play two on two today! I’d like to practice chaser just one more time and I know you think I should focus on Keeper but...” Ron jabbers on and Harry raises an eyebrow at Hermione. She shrugs at him. “... and you can be on my team.”

Harry frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“But Ginny’s not fast enough, I want to practice throwing to a fast target and-”

“We’re not playing fast,” Harry states sharply, and Ron’s eyes grew wide.

“But-”

“Ginny’s plenty fast, anyway. We’ll practice speed tomorrow,” Harry offers and Ron sulks, but accepts. 

Ron and Ginny versus Harry and Hermione, again. He holds the tail end of Hermione’s broom when she places her feet in the holds. It’s easy to tell who’s whizzing past him thanks to the flaming red hair. Fleur offers to keep score. Ron forces Bill to come out when she misses three goals in a row.

Ginny’s throw whistles past his ear and into the basket. She whoops, whirling upside down and high-fiving Ron as he rushes under her. They both check with Bill that he got that one.

Harry scoops up the Quaffle and eyes them both, hovering over Bill. He glides up to Hermione and tosses her the ball, motioning his head at their goal. She looks between him and the basket before it clicks, and she grins. She takes off, and he laughs, speeding to catch up. 

“Hey!” Ron yells from below and Ginny launches after her. 

Harry circles underneath Hermione and she drops the ball down into his outstretched hands. He takes aim at the goal, but Ron flies in from his left, foot blocking the basket. Harry tucks the Quaffle into his chest and barrel rolls under the branches, Ginny hot on his tail. He swings around and dashes back towards the tree as Ron pops up over it and rushes headlong towards him. 

They’ve got him trapped. 

In a last-ditch effort, he lobs the ball high over the tree. Ron’s neck strains to follow. Harry lurches the handle up and the broom jumps, whizzing over Ron’s head. His feet whip the top of the leaves and he gets over just in time to see Hermione toss the Quaffle into the basket.

“YES!” he hoots, punching at the air. She looks up at him, beaming, and raises a triumphant fist above her head, just for a moment before the broom wobbles and she quickly grabs hold again.

“You cheaters!” laughs Ron, pulling up beside him. “BILL!” he yells at his brother, “that one doesn’t count!”

“It does so!” cries Hermione. Her eyes are shining so bright and her smile so big he doesn’t know how anyone could deny her.

“Fine!” says Ron, rolling his eyes and circling around her. She shakes her head at him.

Ron takes his role as Keeper with a bit more enthusiasm from that point on. The sun reaches the point above them where their shadows fall directly down, and it only blinds him when he flies belly up.

“Put it out in front, Ron, where she’s going to be!” he calls out, after Ginny has to pull up to catch Ron’s throw. He’s right about one thing, speed matters. In a real match she would have been pummelled.

“Like this,” says Ginny, pitching the Quaffle far ahead of him. Ron lowers his head, dipping the handle and the broom surges forward. The ball arcs wide and low, and he’s got eyes only for it.

It’s almost in slow motion when Harry sees Hermione in Ron’s line of flight. She reaches out her hands. His stomach drops.

“RON!”

_Thump_. 

____

____

They collide shoulder to shoulder and hurtle sideways, spinning. She hits the ground noiselessly. Harry’s ears ring.

He hurdles off the broom a little too high and he stumbles, knee striking the ground. She’s not moving. _Oh god_ , she’s not moving. His legs refuse to work.

____

____

Bill pushes past him and kneels in front of her, shouting. She winces, opening her eyes to frown at him, and bringing a hand to her shoulder.

Harry lets out a shuddering breath.

Ron lands beside her. “Shit! I’m sorry, Hermione!” He cries, grasping tight at his broom, face twisted.

Hermione sits up and groans, testing her shoulder. Bill asks her something and she nods. Ron touches a hand on her back and a spark of fury shoots up his spine.

“You were going _too_ fast!” he hisses at him. Ron turns to him, startled.

____

____

“Harry...” He feels her fingers grasp his. 

“She didn’t even want to play!”

“Harry!” 

He whips his head around and she’s looking up at him with a strained smile. “I’m fine,” she offers, but doesn’t miss his doubt. She smooths her thumb over his knuckles. “Honestly. I’m fine.” 

He scans her face and he finally allows himself to breathe. 

Mrs Weasley comes bustling out the kitchen door, apron flapping and she bobbles over to them. 

“Oh, my dear, what have we done?” she says heartily to Hermione. Her lips part but Ron gets in first. 

“It’s my fault, mum. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He looks down at Hermione, “I’m really sorry.”

Hermione smiles up at him and places her hand reassuringly over his. Harry feels a twist in his stomach.

“She’ll be right as rain,” chirps Mrs Weasley, running her wand over Hermione’s shoulder. “Just a little strain.” 

A swirling yellow light seeps into her skin. Her eyelids flutter closed, and she exhales. 

“Thanks, Mrs Weasley,” she says, rolling her shoulder. She moves to stand and Ron catches her arm, pulling her up. When she’s upright he doesn’t let go and Harry’s eyes lock onto Ron’s hand. His pinkie slides over a small freckle and her skin dips where his fingertips press. 

•

Ron spends the next few days at her beck and call. She waves him off, but Harry doesn’t miss her smile when his back is turned. 

“Ron, please!” she laughs when he lifts her arm, stacking couch pillows underneath it. “You don’t need to fuss over me.”

“Is it still sore?” Ron asks, sitting on the couch next to her. The livingroom is loud with chatter. Bill and Ginny are opposed on the coffee table, a half-finished game of Exploding Snap between them.

“A little,” she says, flexing the joint. Harry leans against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes flick to the window when a black bird flies too close. He hears a low grumbling noise.

“Are you hungry?” Ron pipes up, eyebrows raised at her. “I’ll get you something. Wait here.” He bounces into the kitchen.

Hermione looks at Harry and grins, “It was _his_ stomach.”

____

____

Bill and Ginny burst into laughter. Harry picks at his nails. 

She frowns at him. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he snaps, turning away from her. He doesn’t want to see her face when Ron walks in with a plate he’s made just for her.

Outside the window the black bird lands before another, puffing up its plume to reveal brightly coloured feathers. It spreads its wings and fans them from side to side. The bird’s companion cocks its head twice, before taking off and leaving the it alone in the middle of the garden.

•

He feels bad about snapping at her. He’s not entirely sure why he did, but at the same time he knows exactly why he did. He closes his eyes, grabs that thought and places it carefully behind the wall.

It’s after dinner and she’s excused herself. He wants to apologise. He follows her up to her room, sliding a foot between the door as is swings closed after her. He pushes it open. 

She’s facing away from him, towards the window. She slides her denim shorts down her legs, slipping them over pink cotton knickers that hug her hips and ride up the swell of her ass. His heart skips a beat. She drops the shorts to the floor and runs her thumbs under the seams of her knickers, stretching them, and Harry sees more skin than he’s ever seen before. 

Blood pounds in his ears and he takes a quick step back, flattening himself to the wall. He thinks that even if she didn’t see him, there’s no way she’ll miss his unreasonably loud panting. He stays motionless against the wall until he’s sure she’s not coming for him; wand raised and fists clenched. He backs down the corridor, and when he swears he see her door open and he dives into the next open room. The door clicks closed behind him and he breathes.

It’s the bathroom. There’s coloured bottles of unknown origin across the shelves and a charmed sponge scrubbing at the sink. The clawfoot bath has a strange multi-faced showerhead, and there’s one large, yellow tap.

He steps into the bath and closes his eyes, turning the tap and leaning up to the showerhead. Cold water streams out, shocking his skin and stinging his face. He holds the air in his lungs and lets the water cool his heated skin. If he stays here long enough maybe it’ll wash away the knowledge he now has of Hermione’s smooth thighs and pink knickers. Maybe it’s been enchanted with a memory charm and he’ll forget the curved line where her leg meets her hip and _fucking hell_ he’ll never forget. It’ll be burned in his brain till the day he dies.

____

____

He peels off his shirt and drops it to the floor with a wet slap. He unbuttons his shorts and hooks his thumbs under his underwear, pausing for a moment – _is he really doing this?_ \- before shoving them both down. His erection springs unrestricted, rebounding against his abdomen. The cold water does nothing to ease it.

____

____

He groans, pressing his palms firm against his eyes. Under his eyelids he sees her round ass, swaying as she shimmy’s out of her shorts. His cock throbs unsolicited.

He lets out a frustrated huff and shakes his head. He takes himself, hard and hot, into his hand.

•

“Checkmate!” Hollers Ron, clapping a palm on his thigh.

“Bugger off! I nearly had you!” Harry cries and flips the board dramatically, the pieces rolling off the bed and onto the floor. They both laugh. 

Ron’s bedroom is looking especially orange, the afternoon sun striking the orange curtains, the orange walls, the orange posters and igniting the room. Ron sets the board flat and the pieces slither back into their places.

“Another?”

“I don’t particularly want to get my arse handed to me again,” laughs Harry, shaking his head. 

“Come on, I’m on a roll!” cries Ron, motioning to the chalk lines on the wall. 

Ron ||||  
Harry |

There’s a knock at the door, and Hermione pokes her head in. 

“What are you laughing about?” she asks, eyes curiously. 

“Just Harry being a sore loser,” Ron laughs and shoves Harry in the arm. Harry turns to him, outrageously offended, and shoves him back. Ron grins, eyes gleaming, and attempts to grab him around the neck in a head lock. Hermione huffs.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she says, rolling her eyes at them and backing out the room. 

“No, Hermione, wait,” calls Ron, and pushes Harry away from him. “Will you play with me?”

She stills, one hand on the doorknob.

“Uh...” she starts, flustered. “No, thanks.”

“Typical,” huffs Ron, turning his nose up at her. She spins to face him, scowling.

“Excuse me?”

“Typical!” he repeats, pointing a finger at her. “Perfect Hermione Granger can’t stand the thought she might lose.”

“Sod off,” she says, hands on her hips. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Then prove it.” His eyes narrow at her and he gestures at the board before him. “One game, that’s it.”

She studies him, brows pulling together. “Fine,” she huffs, stalking over to them. Harry looks back and forth between the two. She sits beside him, in front of the board, and her thigh slides against his. He stands hastily and steps away from the bed. That Cannons poster is suddenly very interesting.

Ron is, as expected, comprehensively thrashing Hermione. She’s frowning and agitated and snaps at Ron’s every attempt to rattle her. Harry leans awkwardly against the dresser, watching them. Ron’s King takes her Queen, sending it spiralling off the bed.

Hermione studies the board, eyes darting. She’s trying to figure out how he did it, Harry thinks. She always bites her bottom lip when she feels challenged.

“Charlie taught me that move,” Ron boasts, smirking at her. 

“Well, not everyone has had the luxury of playing Wizard’s Chess their whole life!” she snaps, crossing her arms. She glares at her Knight like it has a secret.

“Hurry up.”

“Give me a break, I haven’t figured it out yet!”

“I’ll remember that the next time you nag me about homework.” 

She huffs, rolling her eyes at him. Harry taps his heel against the drawer; their bickering is getting at his nerves. The fact she hasn’t acknowledged him in over twenty minutes is beside the point.

“What’s the big deal, anyway?” she says, taking a broken Pawn and rolling it over in her palm. “It’s not fun for me.”

“How ‘bout I teach you?” 

Her hand stills.

“Sorry?”

“I’ll teach you, if you want,” he offers, shrugging. “It’s more fun when you know all the tricks.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flush pink. “Uh... sure.”

He nods, grinning at her. “I promised dad I’d help clean the shed soon, but how about after dinner?”

She smiles back at him, and Harry feels a boiling in his gut. He barely catches her reply after he stalks out the door.

Welcome to the wonderful world of jealousy, he thinks. For the price of admission, you get an inferiority complex and the nearly irresistible urge to punch your best friend in the face.

•

Harry eats in the garden alone that evening. The setting sun ignites the sky in streaks of brilliant pink and purple. It’s quiet and cool and he appreciates being out of the noisy, bustling house for a while. Picking at his plate, feeling abnormally unlike eating.

The kitchen door swings open and the chatter from inside spills out. Hermione emerges, chess board tucked under her arm. She pauses, face to the sky. He’s close enough to see the colours reflect in her eyes, but not close enough that she’s noticed he’s there. She places the board on the garden bench and sits. Carefully, he backs round the side of the house.

This is Hermione. He’d kill for her, die for her. Throw himself of the Astronomy Tower for ever hurting her. But he can’t bring himself to watch her laugh at another boy’s jokes or hold another boy’s hand. He feels like her hands have only ever held his.

He slips in through the front entrance. Mr Weasley is sharing stories of his new promotion in the livingroom. Ginny smiles at him when he enters and waves.

“- selling bogus Fidelius Charms they were! Tricking families into thinking they were protected.”

“Shameful,” utters Mrs Weasley, shaking her head. “Taking advantage of desperate people in times like these.”

Mr Weasley nods, solemn. “At least we caught them early. We’ll be tracking the families tomorrow.”

He can hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and after a moments Bill pokes his head in.  
“Mum?” he calls, and they all look up. “Do you still have that gramophone? Fleur wants to listen to some music.”

Ginny rolls her eyes and Mrs Weasley tilts her head, thinking.

“It’s in the attic, dear,” she calls back to him. Bill grins and disappears up the next floor. Ginny springs off the couch and glides around the room, her best impression of a fancy French dance. Arthur snorts.

“Ginny, that’s enough now,” warns Mrs Weasley, watching the top of the stairs for any sign of Bill. 

He hears Hedwig’s hooting from above and he jogs up to his room. The moment the cage latch is released she steps out onto his hand, nipping at his finger. 

“Sorry, girl,” he mutters, stroking a knuckle over her head. He slides the window up and she stretches her wings, white feathers quivering. She gives him a little chirp before swooping out the window. The sky outside is a navy purple, star speckled, and the moon is remarkably bright. It’s shimmering glow streams through the nearby hills and illuminates the garden.

A blast of sound reverberates through the house, and Harry claps his hands over his years. 

“Sorry!” yells Bill from the floor above, and the music scratches, then flows pleasantly. 

A little while later, there’s a stomping of feet from above, much too heavy to be Fleur’s. Harry investigates up the stairs, and the sound of slow, amorous music seeps from Bill’s room. He pokes his head round the door frame and sees Fleur, gliding across the floor with her red-headed partner, hips swaying. He’s got his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, instructing him as his feet stamp ungraciously. They spin towards him and he sees that it's not Bill, but Ron. He’s looking at her with awe, brows raised and open mouthed. Fleur laughs when he steps on her foot.

“Thankfully I did not accept your invitation to zee Yule Ball,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “I can only teach zo much!”

Ron smirks at her, this wanting look of a fool in lust, and Harry’s stomach sinks. Isn’t he supposed to be in the garden with Hermione?

Harry hurries down to the kitchen, past the Weasleys, and throws open the back door. She’s still on the garden bench, chess board lifeless beside her. She’s turned away from him, face to the moon and it bleaches her skin a slivery white. He crosses the grass, measured, and sits beside her. She doesn’t acknowledge him, her eyes have this far off look. He takes a deep breath.

“I’ll play with you.”

“No, thanks,” she replies, almost instantly, as if she already knows what he’s going to say before even he does. He frowns, she feels so unlike Hermione that this heart hurts. He follows her gaze to the top of the hill, past the orchard, where the moon hangs behind a lone tree. He looks back at her despondent face and thinks he can’t stand it anymore. He rises to his feet and holds his hand out to her.

“Walk with me?” 

She looks up at him, eyes searching. _Please take it_.

____

____

She places her hand on his and it’s cold. He pulls her towards the gate, and she threads her fingers through his. 

The orchard is an ethereal world painted in purple ink. The trees are brushed with a brilliant starlight that filters through the leaves. She studies him with careful eyes, tender eyes.

There near the end of the orchard and he sees that some of the trees still sport fruit, red fat cherries hanging in clusters. 

“Wait here,” he says to her and jogs up to a tree. They’re little high and he’ll have to climb. He places a steading foot in between two branches.

“Harry, you don’t have to,” she warns as he hoists himself up. He uses the branches above to balance himself as he inches forward. 

“I know they’re your favourite,” he says, fingers reaching. Her brows are pulled together as she watches him.

“Just... be careful.”

He bounces the branch a little, grinning down at her. “Like anything could happen to the Chosen One.” She rolls her eyes at him, but he sees the way her mouths lifts at the corners. “What a story, the Boy Who Lived, felled by a cherry tr-”

The bark under his foot gives way, and he lurches downward. Hermione squeals, and he slides down the bough and his back thumps heavy on the grass, knocking the wind from him.

He stares up at the speckled stars, sucking in breath. She moves into his vision, eyes wide and hand over her mouth. He holds his fist up to her, peeling back his fingers to reveal a bundle of cherries. Her eyes flick to them, then back to him before she cracks, laughing gloriously. He laughs too, deep in his chest. Eyes crinkled and shoulders shaking, she steals his breath more than the blow ever could. He’d fall out of a thousand trees to hear that sound.

She helps him up and they share them, Harry insisting she has the last one. She smiles at him, lips stained purple. At the end of the orchard he places a steadying hand on her hip when they climb over the stone wall. On the other side she slips her hand back into his.

“You have a scratch,” she says, wiping a thumb at the corner of her mouth. “Just there.”

He looks down at his arm between them and it pangs, the scrape blooms red under his skin. “It doesn’t hurt,” he offers, pulling her up the hill.

“We should get some Murtlap,” she prods, but still follows his lead. She steps where he steps, crushing as little wildflowers as possible.

“Later.”

Her hand is warm now, and the heat spreads up his arm and into his chest. He savours it, being alone like this. They’ve always reached out to each other for comfort, he thinks. But it’s only been recently they’ve acted ashamed for it.

At the top of the hill there’s the lone tree that stands guard. It looks bigger up close, and she leans up against it. The hills roll out as far as he can see, farmland and orchards like patches on a quilt. There’s dotted lights in the distance.

“That’s the Fawcett’s,” she says, pointing. “Magical family of course. Sarah’s in Ravenclaw.”

He nods, he really wants to look but her skin glows like white porcelain and he doesn’t want to miss it. She glides the tips of her fingers over purple petals, the flowers open to the moon.

“Are you ok?” he whispers.

She glances at him, before stepping towards him and snaking her arms around his waist. She fists the back of his shirt and presses her temple against his jaw. He swears he can feel her heart beating against his skin. He slips one arm round her neck, the other over her ribs. 

“Yeah.”

Her voice is muffled into his neck, but she sounds so sure. Her breath is warm on his skin. It feels different to the last time she pressed herself into him, she’s taking comfort and he’ll willingly giving it. He presses a kiss to her hair.

“Did you know there’s a spell that turns cherry blossoms into butterflies?” she says, and he laughs. 

“I’d like to see that.”

She hums in agreement and he feels it vibrate in his chest. “Me too.”

He steps back from her and reaches in his pocket, producing two cherry stained pips.

“Will they grow?”

She shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

They dig two little holes in the soil, a little way from each other, and drop the seeds in.

“You think one day we’ll pick fruit from them?” he asks, sliding the soil over with his palm. “Carve our names into the bark?”

She smiles and nods, pressing the soil down with her fingers. She stands and brushes her hands over her shorts.

“Maybe a swing too, from the branches. I’ve always wanted one.”

He can picture it there, the trees in full bloom and a wooden swing he’s made himself. Being with her makes him feel like it’s entirely possible, like there’s a future waiting for him outside prophecies and dark lords. 

A shadow flies overhead, circling. They look up and Hedwig swoops, landing on Harry’s forearm. Hermione holds a hand up and Hedwig presses her head into it.

“She’s so beautiful. I didn’t even hear her.” Hermione strokes her white feathers, and Hedwig chirps.

“Yeah. She’s hunts at this time.”

“It’s their feathers, you know. The shape of the wings.” 

Hedwig’s eyes dilate, and she dives after something in the grass. Hermione smiles at her and he sees her shiver.

“Let’s go back,” he says, watching the skin on her arm rise in goosebumps.

“Ok.”

He lets her lead him down the hill and across the orchard. When they reach the kitchen the house is dim, the candles burning low. Hermione rummages around in the cupboard above the sink and produces a small green bottle. She pops the cork and tips in into a cloth. The smell reminds him of last year, when she would soak his hand in it.

“Sit,” she commands, pulling a chair out. He obeys and she slides his sleeve up, pressing the cloth to his scratch. It stings for a moment, but when she moves her hand away the skin is practically clean. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rubbing is hand over his arm. His eyes flick to her lips, they’re still stained. She leans down and presses them soft against his cheek.

“You too. Good night, Harry.”

“Uh...” He feels lightheaded. His cheek burns. “Good night.”

•

•

•

_Ron managed to sneak Hermione’s homework from her bag. Her handwriting was perfectly neat and, even though Snape’s only asked for five pages, she’d written ten._

_Harry and Ron sat hunched over it at the corner table in the common room, scribbling furiously._

_“What do you think she means by that?” asked Ron, finger pointed at the third paragraph. Harry frowned._

_“I’m not sure... Just write it down!”_

_Ron laughed. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner. We’ll be finished before- Hey!” Harry snatched the piece of parchment, and quickly shoved it under his robe. Ron gaped at him, aghast. “What are you-”_

_“Having fun, there?”_

_Ron jumped, startled, and they gazed up to see Hermione approaching them._

_“Uh... Hi!” stumbled Ron, looking wide-eyed and transparently guilty. Harry flashed his teeth, putting on his most convincing smile._

_“Just getting a head start on our homework.”_

_Her eyes lit up and she looked between the two of them. “That’s great!”_

_She waved to them and left through the portrait, immediately Ron released the breath he was holding._

_“Bloody hell. How did you know she was coming?” he exclaimed, sending Harry a thankful look._

_“Her footsteps, I guess.” Harry shrugged, pulling her parchment out from his robe. “They’re always lighter than everyone else’s... and she always skips the last stair - jumps it - like it’s a wasting her time.”_

_Ron’s brows pulled together, trying to recall, but ultimately coming up blank._

_“If you say so...” ___


	3. Ice Cream

The next morning, Harry wakes early. The lasting flashes of a vivid dream whirls - Purple lips and needy hands and strangled moans pressed up against a cherry tree. It leaves him aching, hormones raging. 

In the bathroom he cups icy water to his face, lungs catching, and climbs the staircase to Ron’s room. He hears his snoring long before he even touches the handle.

“Ron,” he says firmly, holding the door open. Ron grunts and rolls over, one foot hanging over the side of the bed. “Ron!”

He jumps, startled. “Huh? Wasswrong?” he slurs, squinting at him.

“Wake up.”

“Why,” he groans, rubbing at his eyes. 

“You need to apologise.”

Ron frowns, pulling himself up. “What?”

“Hermione. You bailed on her last night.”

The colour drains from his face. He stares at Harry, wide eyed before scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Shit. The chess thing.”

“She waited ages, you know.”

“It's just... I saw Bill and Fleur dancing and Fleur offered to teach me this Beauxbatons dance and-”

“It doesn’t matter. Just...” Harry presses his fingers to his temples, feeling something boiling in him. “.... apologise to her.”

“Yeah, of course.” 

Ron heaves back the covers, feet barely on the floor and he’s reaching for a fresh shirt his mother’s folded on his dresser. Harry turns and leaves, pausing outside his door to breathe. His temper feels quick today.

Halfway down the stairs, Ron rushes past him. Harry catches the tail-end of _bloody idiot_ under his breath. A glorious smell wafts from the kitchen.

“- really sorry, Hermione.”

Harr hesitates just before the door, ears straining.

“It’s fine.”

“We’ll play again today, I promise.”

Harry moves into the kitchen, Mrs Weasley is hovering over a pan on the stove and Ron and Hermione stand stiffly at the table, her back to him. 

“That’s not necessary, Ron.”

He frowns at her, mouth opening and closing. He finally shrugs, defeated.

“Again, I’m sorry. I just... forgot.”

“It’s alright, honestly. I forgive you.” 

She turns and her eyes flick to Harry. She takes a seat opposite him.

“No time for that anyway,” chirps Mrs Weasley, sliding bacon onto their plates. “We’re going to Diagon Alley today.”

Ron’s face lights up. “Really?”

“As long as your father doesn’t get called into work... and no funny business,” she retorts, shaking a spatula at him. “I haven’t heard good things out of there lately.”

He spins to Harry, eyes gleaming. “We gotta see Fred and George’s joke shop. I hear they have Quills that write homework for you!”

Mrs Weasley and Hermione frown in unison and Harry laughs.

A Ministry car is sent to the house to escort them. The ride to the Leaky Cauldron is quiet, everyone hyperaware of the ever-listening ears of the Ministry driver. Mr Weasley chatters about extra security.

Harry’s face breaks into a grin when he spots Hagrid’s gigantic, shaggy-bearded form waiting for him against the pub door. He sweeps Harry into a bone-crushing hug the moment he steps out of the car. 

The pub itself is quieter than he can ever remember it, wary eyes watching them as they pass into the courtyard.

Diagon Alley has changed. 

The colourful, glittering window displays of spellbooks, potion ingredients, and wands are mostly lost to view, hidden behind the large Ministry posters pasted over them. Most sombre purple posters carry blown-up versions of the security advice on the Ministry pamphlets that had been sent out over the summer. Others bore flickering black-and-white photographs of Death Eaters known to be on the loose. Bellatrix Lestrange is sneering from the front of the nearest window. 

On the other hand, a number of shabby-looking stalls had sprung up along the street. The nearest one, which had been erected outside the Apothecary, under a striped, stained awning, had a cardboard sign pinned to its front:

_AMULETS: Effective Against Werewolves, Dementors, and Inferi_

“Excuse me,” muttered Mr Weasley, pushing past Harry, eyeing the stall. Mrs Weasley watches after him, agitated.

“Hagrid, will you take these three? They know what they need.” Hagrid nods happily and she turns to Ron, face stern. “Meet us at the shop by two, and no dawdling!”

Ron rolls his eyes, hands raised in submission. “Got it, mum.”

“Ginny dear, come with me.” She grabs her daughter by the arm and sets of after her husband. 

Hermione pulls a folded piece of parchment from her pocket. 

“We need new robes, Hagrid. That will take the longest, so let’s do that first. Then our books at Flourish and Blotts - Oh, and I need a new cauldron!”

She strides off towards Madam Malkin’s, turning to wave a hurrying hand at them. His legs move on their own because she’s nearly ten feet away from him and he’ll be damned if he’s letting her out of his sight.

Hagrid stands guard outside the shop while they get fitted. Harry quietly requests a robe with self-adjusting sleeves and Madam Malkin is very thankful when he hands over more than she quotes. Ron can’t stop eyeing himself in the mirror, Harry’s never seen him in new robes that fitted so handsomely. Hermione is tailored behind a panelled screen, and Harry is thankful lest he see her thighs again. He thinks of nothing more embarrassing than Madam Malkin measuring his legs only to find a stiff tent before her eyes.

At Flourish and Blotts, the attendant directs them to a section at the back of the store that holds the sixth-year additions. He feels a hollowness when he watches Hermione stack Advanced Potion Making on top of her pile. She disappears behind the seventh-year shelves and when she reappears her stack is several inches higher. At the counter Ron’s eyes bulge. 

“Blimey, Hermione. What’s all that for?”

“Just getting ahead,” she says, passing over a handful of Galleons. “O.W.L.S are next year, you know.”

“Bloody hell! Why don’t you worry about that next year then? You’re only sixteen once!”

She shrugs and heaves the books across the counter. Ron gawks at them.

“I’ll carry them for you, if you want,” he offers.

She stills, watching him with trepidation. “Uh, no... no thanks. I’ll be fine.” She taps the stack with her wand - _“Reducio”_ \- and they spin, shrinking down to the size of a matchbox. Ron looks down at the pile in his arms and frowns.

“I thought we weren’t allowed to do magic outside Hogwarts?”

“Well, I read in a book that magic isn’t traceable here.”

Harry thinks back to when she repaired his glasses in the Alley before second year. He can still hear her sweet sounding Repairo in the back of his head.

“Brilliant!” 

He shrinks his own books, and stuffs them into his bag. Hagrid turns at the sound of the door’s bell as they exit, and he ambles over to them. 

“Wha’s next?” 

“The Quidditch shop,” pipes up Ron, looking down the alley, neck craning. “I’m wanna be prepared this year.”

“I need a new cauldron too,” Hermione reminds them.

Hagrid frowns, eyebrows scrunching together like great brown caterpillars. “Potage’s is on tha other side ta Quality Quidditch Supplies.” He pats at his coat’s pouches and pulls out a tarnished pocket watch. “Ye mam wants ye at tha store by two.”

“I’ll take her,” Harry offers, and Hermione turns to him, relieved. 

“I’d rather we stick tagether,” Hagrid grunts, scratching at his beard.

“I won’t let anything happen. I Promise.” Harry grins up at him and Hagrid chuckles, his broad chest bouncing.

“Alright,” he booms, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Back by two though.”

They both nod, and Hermione tugs on his sleeve. 

“Come on.”

He laughs and follows her through the Alley. There’s a crowd gathered round a stall, a shabby-faced man jangling necklaces and bracelets on his fingers. Hermione reaches for Harry’s hand as they thread through the milling throng.

“Protection for the lovely lady?” cries the man, waving at her. She throws him a filthy look and tugs Harry’s hand forward. When the crowd parts she jogs up to the window display of Potage’s Cauldron Shop. 

“I’ve heard of this one,” she declares eagerly, pointing beyond the glass. “It’s supposed to be self-stirring and self-cleaning.”

Harry shields a hand over his eyes, peering into the dim shop. He’s not sure which one she’s talking about as they all look the same.

He follows her through the door, and a shaggy-haired assistant with dark circles around his eyes approaches them. 

“What can I do for you?” he asks in a heavy Irish accent. Hermione enquires about the one in the display and listens enthusiastically as he lists off features. Harry taps his finger on a tank filled with Billywigs and they swarm, stingers _tick tick tick-ing_ against the glass. 

“- Fifty Galleons, Lass.”

“Oh,” she utters, and the disappointment in her voice makes Harry turn. “How much for a Standard Copper, size two?”

“Twenty-five.”

She checks her money bag, fingering each coin as she counts. She sighs, shoulders deflating, and snaps the bag shut.

“I shouldn’t have bought those extra books. Thanks, anyway,” she mutters to the assistant, disheartened. She waves a beckoning hand at Harry. “Let’s go.”

The door bells as she exits, and Harry follows. He pauses his hand on the doorknob. 

“Which one did she want?” he calls out, and the assistant comes shuffling over. 

“The Shingleton Mark Two, Lad. The one with the gold lining,” he adds, noting Harry’s confusion.

Harry rummages in his bag, feeling for his coin sack. He tips it over the counter, Galleons and Sickles clinking against one another. Harry stacks them in piles next to the register.

“Would you take forty-five?”

“Ah...” The man’s eyes flick up to Harry’s forehead, and he swallows. “Sure.”

He ducks behind the counter and emerges with a large box, gold lining at the corners.

Harry braces for its weight but is pleasantly surprised to find it weighs no more than one of his textbooks. Neck craning over the box, he feels for the door.

“Good luck, Lad.” 

Harry nods, and tries not to read too much into it.

“Thanks.”

Hermione’s across the cobblestones, face bright as she speaks with a wrinkled old man behind a florist’s stall. She smiles when he passes her a single purple flower. She tucks it into her hair, just above the ear.

“Finally, Harry. What were you-” she pauses, frowning at the box in his hands.

“Uh...” he starts and realises he hasn’t thought this far ahead. “You’re gonna need one this year and this is the one the bloke said you wanted and if it's not right I’ll-”

“Harry!” she interrupts, brows raised. “It’s for me?”

He offers her a sheepish smile. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to.”

Her eyes shine and she beams at him, teeth flashing white under her pink lips. He can smell the faintly familiar perfume from the flower in her hair. 

She shrinks the box the same as her books, and he’s thankful. She reaches for it and her fingertips linger on his open palm. Pink creeps into her cheeks and she ducks her head, checking her watch.

“We have a little time,” she says, looking around. “You want to sit?”

He stares at her, nodding dumbly. She leads him to a table, shaded by a large red and white striped umbrella.

“Wait here,” she says excitedly, bouncing on her heels before disappearing behind two wizards in navy robes. Harry stands on his toes, neck straining, and a flicker of panic grips him when he can’t see her. He starts forward, but a Hermione-like voice chides him; stay in one place. He sits, foot tapping, and it feels like much too long before she returns.

“Here,” she says, sitting beside him and shoving an ice cream cone into his hands. They’re melting, cream dripping, and her tongue flicks out, running up the length of her cone. His hormones flair low in his stomach and he has to remind himself to breathe.

“You didn’t have to,” he stammers, staring at her lips far too long. 

“I know. I wanted to.” She smiles at him with this knowing look and his hearts skips a beat.

A drip slides onto his finger and he sucks at it, eyes lighting up. He swipes his tongue round the cone.

“Treacle tart?” he asks, licking at the corners of his mouth.

“I know it’s your favourite.”

He grins at her and her at him. He doesn’t have words for this. This bone-deep knowing and unfathomable reliance. It’s Hermione, Hermione, who knows what he’s thinking without having to say anything at all. 

“Isn’t this cute?” 

He feels the wind sucked out of him. He spins in the direction of the sniggering voice and of course - _of course_ \- it’s Malfoy. His pale, pointed face sneers down at them. His mother hovers over his shoulder, nose turned up.

“On a date, are we?” Malfoy eyes Hermione up and down and she recoils. “Didn’t take her as your type, Potter.”

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Harry snarls through gritted teeth, and his fingers tighten around the cone. He hears the shell crack.

“We were just wondering what that smell was, weren’t we?” Malfoy smirks, glancing up at his mother. She scowls down at Hermione from behind her big nose like she’s a rotten egg. Those hormones bubble under his skin. Harry hands Hermione is cone.

“No, Harry, don’t,” she begs, eyes anxious. He thrusts back his chair with a piercing scrape and stands, fist on his wand.

“If you attack my son,” Narcissa Malfoy says coolly, eyes narrowed into slits. “I shall ensure that it is the last thing you ever do." 

"Really?" says Harry, taking a step forward and glaring into the smoothly arrogant face that, for all its pallor, still resembles her sister's. He is as tall as she is now. "Going to get a few Death Eater pals to do me in, are you?" 

She smiles unpleasantly. "I see that being Dumbledore's favourite has given you a false sense of security. But Dumbledore won't always be there to protect you."

“He's not here now... So why not have a go? They might be able to find you a double cell in Azkaban with your husband."

“Don't you dare talk to my mother like that, Potter!" Malfoy snarls, and makes an angry movement toward him. Harry whips out his wand and points it at Malfoy’s chest.

He feels a soft touch on his arm. Her eyes are large and pleading, and they hold him. Her hand an anchor, she pulls him back down. She exhales a deliberately deep breath, and he follows. He lowers his wand.

“Come along now, Draco,” Narcissa huffs, turning her back. “Let’s not waste breath.”

Malfoy sniggers, eyes flicking to Hermione’s hand on his arm. “Careful Potter, I hear Mudbloods’ carry all types of diseases.” Adrenaline rushes in his ears and his fingers curl into a fist. “Then again...” Malfoy shrugs, grinning. “Get your dick dirty all you wa-”

_CRACK_

Harry throws his fist against Malfoy’s nose, and Narcissa shrieks. Malfoy lurches backward, hands to his face and eyes wide, incredulous. He feels at his nose, pulling back his hands to reveal blood. His face turns furious. 

He flings a fist wildly in Harry’s direction, but he steps back quickly, evading it. Malfoy launches at him, shoulder slamming into his gut and tackling him onto the cobblestones. In Harry’s attempts to push him off, he cops one in the eye. Large hands wrench Malfoy into the air.

“What’s tha meaning ‘o this!” bellows Hagrid, pinning Malfoy to him under his great arm.

“He hit me!” squeals Malfoy, fingers scrabbling at Hagrid’s sleeve.

Harry’s fist clenches so tight, his nails cut into his palm. “If you think I’d let you get away with-”

He feels a solid hand on his shoulder. He whips his head around to see Ron standing beside him, nostrils flaring.

Narcissa takes hold of Draco’s face, pulling him from Hagrid. Her eyes bulge at the site of his nose, and Draco wrenches himself from her grip. He turns to Harry, seething.

“You’ll pay for this!” Malfoy hisses, and his eyes flick to Hermione, narrowing. “Both of you.”

Harry steps towards him, fury seeping out his pores. Ron blankets his arms round Harry’s shoulders, restraining him.

“Mate,” grits out Ron, voice strained. “As much as I reckon he deserves it, everyone’s watching.”

Harry’s eyes dart around, and sure enough every eye in the Alley is on him, whispering behind cupped hands. Only one matters though, and she’s got this disappointed look that makes guilt rise in his throat. 

“I’m good,” he laments and shrugs off Ron’s arms. He turns to Hermione, eyes downcast. “Sorry... I didn’t want-”

“Harry!” she gasps, eyes flicking to something behind his ear. Malfoy’s fist meets Hagrid’s giant palm with a smack. 

“Wha’s wrong wit ya?!” thunders Hagrid, his entire hand encompassing Malfoy’s fist. “Strikin’ wit his back turned?”

“Get your grubby hands off me!” shouts Malfoy, jerking his arm in a futile attempt to free himself.

“Ya need ta leave,” Hagrid barks. “Before tha Ministry guards arrive.” Narcissa swallows, looking terribly anxious, her eyes darting. Hagrid drags Malfoy by the arm down the Alley and his mother follows, but not before throwing Harry a filthy look. 

Harry jumps when he feels a palm on his cheek. Hermione looks up at him, brows scrunched together, and she swipes her thumb gently under his eye. 

“It’s already bruised,” she murmurs, and it throbs when she presses under his eyebrow. “But nothing broken.”

Ron claps Harry on the back, grinning. “You should have seen the look of his face!” he laughs. “The bloody coward!”

Hermione huffs. “As much as I appreciate you defending my honour, Harry, you could get into so much trouble for that!”

He frowns at her, feeling stunned. “What was I supposed to do? Let him talk about you like that?”

“I Just think-”

“That’s gonna be a wicked bruise, mate,” interjects Ron, gesturing to his eye. “Let’s get to Fred and George’s. I know they have bruise-remover, thanks to those punching telescopes. I mean, if it were me, I’d wear it like a badge of honour, but mum’s gonna flip!”

•

“Sit still.”

“Sorry.”

Her fingertip glides over his tender skin, spreading a thick yellow paste under his eye. He stares up at her, and he thinks he must surely look like a smitten fool, but he doesn’t care because he’s close enough to see the amber speckles in her irises and count the freckles on her nose – there’s twenty-three.

“Close your eyes.”

•

Fred lets him pocket a Decoy Detonator, an Instant Darkness bomb and a Skiving Snackbox.

When they leave the shop Ginny’s new Pigmy Puff leaps off her shoulder and darts down the Alley, skirting feet. 

“I’ll get it,” shouts Harry, spotting a flicker of purple in the nearby alleyway. He weaves through some strange men with darkened glasses and jogs into the lane. The Puff is trembling behind a crate and when it hears Harry’s footsteps it takes off again. Harry casts _Accio_ and it flies into his hand. It struggles and he cups his palms around it, bringing it up to his face.

“Cute.”

Behind his hands he sees the shadow of a door opening, and his eyes flick over. It’s Borgin and Burke’s, he must be in Knockturn Alley. A figure slams the door shut and Harry quickly presses himself into a bend in the wall. He inches out just enough to see that it's Malfoy, strutting past him with a self-congratulatory smirk.

He frowns, anything that would make Malfoy that pleased can’t be anything good. He backs down the Alley, waiting until he can no longer see white hair before he turns, eyeing the shop. The lights inside dim and he hears the lock click.

“Harry!”

He jumps, startled, and sees Ginny bounding towards him, Ron and Hermione at her heels.  
“Did you find him?”

“Huh?” He frowns, did they see Malfoy too? The Puff squirms in his hands. “Oh... Yes.” He peels open his palms and the it leaps forward onto Ginny, climbing her shirt and hiding in her hair.

“Let’s get outta here,” says Ron, suspiciously eyeing a shrunken head over a shop window.

There’s an uncomfortable feeling in the Alley as they walk, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The shutter over a window display suddenly snaps closed, sealed.

“Did you two see Malfoy?” Harry whispers to Ron and Hermione. “He was leaving Borgin and Burke’s.”

“What would he be doing in there?” Hermione murmurs back, glancing over her shoulder.

“Probably looking for an illegal growth potion for his tiny d-”

“Ron!”

Harry laughs, shading a hand over his eyes as they step into the sunlight. Mrs Weasley comes hurrying over to them, bags swinging from her arms.

“You can’t just take off like that, Harry!” she exclaims, scanning him up and down. “What if there was-”

_BOOM_

An explosion reverberates through the Alley. Screams pierce his ears. He flings an arm around Hermione, yanking her into him. Shards of wood whiz past Harry’s head. He spins them against the wall, and something sharp stings his back.

“Children!” He hears Mrs Weasley’s shriek, followed by a roar from Hagrid. 

Harry squints over his shoulder, and between the scrambling bodies and settling debris he sees two black figures hunched where Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour stood only moments ago. They drag his bloodied body from under a shattered beam and with an echoing crack they disappear as quickly as they came.

“Harry...” 

Hermione’s questioning voice draws him back to her, shielded between him and the wall. She’s staring at her hand, puddles of bright red blood on her fingertips. She glances up at him, alarmed.

“I think your bleeding.”

•

Back at the burrow, Mrs Weasley’s wand pulls a half inch of steel from his rib. Hermione hovers over him, brows knitted together. When it’s finished she steps towards him, arms crossed.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he says, gazing down at her. “I wanted to.”

•  
•  
•

_“You want to cancel?”_

_“Not really, mum,” sighed Hermione, twisting her hands together. “I have to.”_

_“But you love skiing?” probed her mother, frowning. “We’ve had France booked for months.”_

_“I know, I just...” She was looking forward to getting away from it all, but she knows Harry’s hurting right now... and Mr Weasley too, of course. She doubted if being at The Burrow right now without her is a good idea._

_“Is this about that boy?”_

_She felt her face grow hot. “Who, Ron?”_

_“Harry.”_

_She swallowed. How could her mother always see right through her?_

_“It’s about O.W.L.S,” she offered, holding her mother’s eye, unwavering. “I need the time to study.”_

_Mrs Granger returned her gaze, prodding for a crack in her defence. She eventually sighed, defeated._

_“If you say so, dear.” ___


	4. Fireworks

It’s the night before the train ride to Hogwarts. Mr Weasley persuades Harry and Ron to help him de-gnome the garden. It feels like an unsatisfying end the holidays, but Harry thinks it’s only fair compensation. Bill lounges on the garden bench with Fleur on his lap and a glass of whisky in his hand, encouraging them. After their last Weasley dinner of steak and kidney pie, they sprawl on the grass, exhausted.

“I swear one bit me,” huffs Ron, rubbing at his shin. “Hermione, are gnome bites poisonous?”

“Venomous? No. Infectious? Yes.” 

Harry whips his head around; he hadn’t heard her approach. Ron’s eyes go wide, fingers stilling on his skin. He scrambles to his feet, foot sliding out on the grass as he makes for the kitchen door. 

“Mum!”

Hermione laughs, shaking her head. She leans into Harry’s vision, hair falling over her shoulders.

“How’s your back?”

He twists his shoulders, testing it against the grass. “Good.”

She sits next to him, folding her legs under her. “I can’t believe we’re sixth years already.”

He smiles, and his lashes distort the light from the setting sun. “You ready?”

She nods, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Are _you_?”

He laughs. 

“Of course.”

She cocks her head, eyebrows raised. “Is your trunk packed?” 

He freezes, picturing the bundle of clothes casually thrown in his trunk, his schoolbooks and robes still crammed in his bag from the day at Diagon Alley. 

“Uh... yes. Absolutely.”

She rolls her eyes, but he sees her mouth pull at the corners. Ron comes shuffling out, something shoved under his shirt.

“Nothing!” he yells back into the house and bangs the door closed. He skips over to them with a mischievous grin.

“Don’t tell mum...” he jitters, eyes gleaming. “Or Bill... or Dad... just, don’t tell anyone, ok?”

“Come on, then!” Harry snickers, impatient.

Ron crouches before them and pulls out the half empty bottle of Bill’s Firewhisky. The amber liquid flickers gold, catching the sinking light as Ron swirls if before him.

“Are you mad?” gasps Hermione, eyes wide. Ron groans.

“Honestly, Hermione, lighten up! You want to play by the rules your whole life?”

“That’s not fair,” she grumbles, frowning at him. “Besides, I wouldn’t be friends with you two if that were true.”

Ron and Harry both laugh, and Ron pulls a smaller, thinner bottle from his back pocket. 

“Here,” he huffs and shoves a Butterbeer into her hands. “I thought you might object.”

“Oh, well... thank you,” she mutters, eyeing the bottle warily. Ron unscrews the Firewhisky cap and peers down the throat.

“Only sixteen once,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “Cheers.” 

He holds the bottle out towards Hermione, and she hesitantly clanks her own against it. He brings it to his lips. They both watch him with wide-eyed, eager curiosity. Ron makes a grimaced face, before throwing his head back, swallowing.

“Any good?” asks Harry, expectantly. Ron nods fervently and thumps a fist to his chest.

“Just great,” he croaks.

Harry swipes the bottle from him, pausing to exhale, before taking a swig. 

It burns. 

He coughs violently and it shoots out his nose. Hermione and Ron stare at him, stunned, before erupting into laughter. Harry wipes as his face and laughs too.

•

He’s no longer a child.

Neither is she. 

She’s that part of him that he’s never had to think about. She’s always there, like breathing and blinking and bleeding. 

The thought of it frightens him - terrifies him. Sinking in his stomach and prickling under his skin. 

He knows that it's time to deal with it. 

With this.

With _her._

With the _us_ of _Harry and Hermione._

It’s that simple and that complicated.

•

The night is clear and crisp, and Harry lies on his back, the tiny speckled stars radiant above him. He’s never thought they could be so soothing, hypnotising - but that might just be Firewhisky.

Ron gathers branches and stacks them in the middle of the garden. Bill heaves down the gramophone, stocking it up on an old wine barrel under the eaves. Mr Weasley rattles around in his shed, producing an old record with a torn cover. Ron hides the near empty Firewhisky bottle behind the oak tree. The girls are drawn out, one by one.

“Mum, will you light this?” calls Ron, dumping another armful of sticks onto his jumbled pile.

“Ronald, what are you doing?” Mrs Weasley huffs, hands on her hips.

“A bombfire!” Ron says gleefully, eyes gleaming at Hermione.

“Bonfire,” she corrects.

Mrs Weasley shakes her head and Ron turns to his father. Harry thinks he’ll have much better luck with him.

“You wouldn’t rob your children the experience of a real Muggle bombfire, would you, Dad?”

Mr Weasley’s eyes light up and he waltzes over to inspect Ron’s work, scratching at the scruff on his chin. Ginny exits the kitchen, dragging dining chairs her behind her.

“Well, now. Harry, Hermione!” he calls, waving them over. “How would one light this? Non-magically, of course.”

“Uh... matches?” Harry offers from the grass, he’s never been in a tent before, let alone camping.

“My parents would always use little these little charcoal bricks, light them with a flint,” says Hermione, miming the size with her fingers.

Mr Weasley hangs off every word. “Fascinating!”

“Dad!” 

“Very well, then,” concedes Mr Weasley, plucking his wand from his pocket. He casts _Incendio_ and the pile erupts into flickering orange flames. Ron whoops.

Bill flicks his wand at the gramophone and the sound swells, sailing out over the garden. He pulls Fleur to his chest and they dance, sweeping over the grass. 

“Come on, dear,” croons Mr Weasley, holding his hand out to his wife and bowing. She accepts, grinning, and curtsies back. Ginny ducks her head, embarrassed, and shields her eyes from her parents. Harry thinks she doesn’t know how lucky she is.

Mr Weasley does an exaggerated twirl and Ron laughs. He bounces around them, stomping his feet in an off-tempo jig. It’s nice to see them all smiling. The house has been quiet for days. 

Ginny leans over to whisper at Hermione, whom proceeds to shakes her head in protest. Ginny grins, grabbing her arm and pulling her from her seat. Hermione laughs and they link arms, twirling around the fire. She’s always liked dancing.

Harry turns his cheek, the grass tickling his nose, and watches them. The fire lights them all in shades of orange and gold, shadows strong and black stretching out behind them. He wrestles with the feeling that he’s an outsider here.

His eyes are drawn to Hermione’s hips; when she twirls her summer dress lifts and he can see those damn thighs. Hermione’s eyes flick to his and she grins. His chest feels warm and it’s not from the whisky. Ron links his arm around Hermione’s and Harry quickly looks away.

The breeze lifts glowing embers into the sky and Harry blows at one when it threatens to land on his nose. He hears footsteps approach and Hermione sprawls out next to him, chest heaving. He listens to her breath settle and finds his own falls into rhythm with hers. 

“That’s Draco,” she says, finger pointing upwards. Harry frowns. 

“What?”

“The constellation. It’s right above us.” She shuffles closer to him, and their shoulders meet. She points her finger again. “It looks like a snake.” 

Harry snorts.

“Give me your hand.” Her fingers curl around his palm and she lifts it, pointing his finger above them in an _S_ motion. “Right there. Do you see it?”

“Uh... yes.” 

He’s never been much good at Astrology; it all just looks like dots in the sky. But he’s enjoying her hand on his too much to admit otherwise. She moves his hand a little to the left.

“There’s Andromeda.” _Stars._ “Cygnus.” _More stars_. “Cassiopeia.” He still just sees _stars._

“These names sound familiar.”

“Well, they should,” she says, rolling her head to look at him. Her hair pools around her head like a halo. “They surely inspired the house of Black.”

A lump sprouts in his throat. The squints up at them, searching.

“Is Sirius up there?” 

He tries not to think too much into that. 

She hums, thinking. “Not yet. January.”

He nods, and Ron’s laughter draws his eye. He’s dancing with his mother, stepping on her toes. Mrs Weasley looks delighted.

Harry glances back at their entwined hands, they fit so perfectly against each other and he can’t remember if he has ever held another’s. It might be the Firewhisky, but he feels a surge of courage.

“Can I ask you something?”

She rolls her body to face him, cushioning her head on her arm. “Of course.”

“Do you fancy Ron?”

He feels her stiffen, fingers curling tight in his. He locks his eyes on a particularly bright star. This is much easier without having to look at her. 

She licks at her mouth, teeth pressing into her lip. She doesn’t speak for a while and he thinks maybe it’s best if she doesn’t. Let him live in his world of repressed optimism a little longer. 

“I think...” She swallows, her lips part. “I liked the idea of it, having someone like me back... and I tried to... but, I just didn’t...” she pauses, inhaling deeply, and he can feel her eyes staring through him. “I don’t.”

He releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. It feels like a Hippogriff has stepped off his chest and he hopes she doesn’t see the smile pulling at his lips. Or maybe he does.

He turns to her and her eyes are shining, searching. He thinks surely, _surely,_ she must know. 

“RONALD! WEASLEY!”

They both snap their heads up, and Harry cringes. Mrs Weasley holds the Firewhisky bottle in her shaking hands. Ron backs away from her cautiously, hands raised like a shield between them. 

“Listen, mum. I can explain-”

He takes off, feet slipping under him, towards the house. Mrs Weasley bounds after him, red-faced and furious. Mr Weasley, Bill and Ginny laugh.

Harry turns back towards Hermione but she’s already standing, brushing the dirt off her dress. He slides back down into the grass with a dissatisfied groan. 

If you’re up there, Sirius, your advice would be welcome right about now. 

•

When the fire gets low, he searches in the orchard for more branches, and when he returns it’s only Mr Weasley and Hermione sitting around it. He cautiously thrusts the wood on glowing coals.

“I won’t see you off in the morning,” grunts Mr Weasley, standing and stretching his back. “Work’s been busy since the incident in Diagon.” He moves towards Harry and claps his hand over his shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure, the both of you. I hope you enjoyed it here.” 

“Yes, Sir,” nods Harry, eyes flicking to Hermione. It’s been so much more than that, and he wonders what would happen if he just skipped the train tomorrow.

“Thank you for having us, Mr Weasley,” says Hermione, ever diplomatic. There’s the faint sound of a slamming door from the rooms above and Mr Weasley sighs.

“Better say goodbye to the family. Do you want me to-” He motions to the fire, holding up his wand. Harry shakes his head.

“No, it’s fine.”

Mr Weasley nods, raising a hand in farewell. “Good luck.”

The coals hiss and crackle. Hermione stands and moves closer, rubbing her hands together. A floating piece of ash lands on Harry’s shoe. He opens and closes his mouth, he wants to say so much to say but no words form. He steps closer to her.

“Fireworks,” he blurts, this heavy silence finally beating him. She cocks her head.

“Fireworks?” 

“Yeah. Do you wanna set one off?”

She laughs. “Sure.”

He digs in his back pocket and produces a tiny green and red striped rocket. It was the smallest from his Pyrotechtrix box, and he had planned on giving it to Ron. She inspects it quizzically.

“How do we light it?”

He’d assume with magic, but circumstances call for another approach.

“I have an idea.” 

He crouches down and holds the rocket over the coals. His hand grows alarmingly warm, but just before he pulls away the tail sparks, flickering a fluorescent green. He holds it out to her. 

“Here, you take it!” 

She gapes at him, alarmed. “Are you mad?”

He laughs, and the sparks fizzle against his palm; they don’t sting at all.

“Honestly, it’s fine-”

_Whoosh!_

It shoots from his hand, green sparks showering them. It whizzes along the ground, leaving a neon trail in its wake. It arcs toward Hermione and she squeaks, leaping towards him and he catches her arms. It spins upward, spiralling, and paints the shape of the Dark Mark against the sky; except rather than a snake slithering out its mouth, it’s a giant penis.

They both laugh. 

He looks down at her, and the wind is taken from his lungs. The way she smiles, eyes bright and cheeks flushed; he swears she reserves it only for him.

There’s a gravity between them, pulling them in. It’s always been there; the reason he could always be found next to her, seeking her voice, seeking her touch. The reason why at eleven he was compelled to defend her against a mountain troll. 

Except now it’s different.

It feels electric.

Her eyes are shining, and they flick to his mouth for just a moment. Suddenly, the garden is all too silent and the fire all too hot. Her smile drops. He can hear nothing but their breathing, a husky crescendo. 

Her lips are perfectly pink and perfectly parted, and, in this moment, he can think of nothing more than what they would feel like against his. 

He cradles her face in his palm and ghosts his thumb over the corner of her mouth. She inhales sharply, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

The world goes still. 

His blood pumps deafening in his ears. He leans in and feels her breath warm over his lips. The anticipation prickles.

“Are you sure?”

He stills, before pulling back to look at her. “Sorry?”

“You have to be sure.” Her eyes are searching, desperate. “Because it’ll change everything.” 

He steps back from her. Maybe he read this all wrong, read _her_ all wrong.

“It’s not that I...” she starts, reaching out to him.

“No... no, it’s fine,” he stumbles, shaking his head. He takes another step back, turning towards the kitchen door.

“Harry, wait!”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he calls, slapping a hand over his eyes, squeezing them shut.

He’d rather spend the rest of his life aching after her then lose what they already have.

•  
•  
•

_“Harry, wait up!”_

_He stomped down the Owlery steps, long legs taking two at a time, and Hermione struggled to keep up with him. He looked up, squinting, and the owl carrying Sirius’s letter was swallowed by the sun._

_His blood felt quick and his muscles tense._ Bloody Ron, _only he’d think a_ deadly _tournament was worth the fame and fortune._

_He heard a gasp from behind, and he turned; Hermione was a fair way behind him, kneeling on the stairs. She’s grasping at her ankle and a wash of guilt doused his ire._

_He jogged back up to her. “Are you ok?”_

_“My foot slipped,” she muttered, grimacing._

_“Can you walk?”_

_“I’m not sure.”_

_He crouched beside her, slipping her arm over his shoulders and pulling her up. Gripping at his jumper, she tentatively stepped forward and he took her weight. He watched their feet as they descended; she’s hopping and he’s afraid she’ll take them both down._

_When they reached the grass he sighed, she’d taken front position is his mind and he’d nearly,_ nearly, _forgotten about goblets and tournaments and contestants and death._

_“Thanks,” he said, feeling like his mind ran a little smoother now._

_“For what?”_

_“For believing me.”_

_She snorted, rolling her eyes at him. “I didn’t need to believe you. I already knew.”_


End file.
